


Shattered Heart, Broken Blade

by thedreamerdelta



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: AST questline references, Alternate Universe - Dark, Ambiguous Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Canonical Character Death, Corpse Desecration, Corruption, Dark, Dark Knight Questline (Final Fantasy XIV) Spoilers, Dismemberment, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Gender-Neutral Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Gun Violence, Ishgardian Justice, Not Beta Read, Paperwork: The real villain, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Politics, apologies in advance, look it'll make sense eventually i swear, lotsa angst, not sure yet - Freeform, possible eventual Aymeric/Estinien, writing is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24784618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamerdelta/pseuds/thedreamerdelta
Summary: With a nation haunted by reflections of the past, Aymeric gives in to the darkness within to save his people.The court of Ishgardian justice is put through its own trial by fire.No one is safe.
Comments: 34
Kudos: 37





	1. And So It Began

**Author's Note:**

> This will be slowly become a dark!Aymeric fic.  
> You have been warned.
> 
> Takes place during Shadowbringers, but no major spoilers as of yet. (Slight hw spoilers, _definite_ arr spoilers.)
> 
> [Source for the image at the top - please retweet the fantastic artist!](https://twitter.com/kiiishi_draws/status/1270418130716647424/photo/1)

[](https://twitter.com/kiiishi_draws/status/1270418130716647424/photo/1)

They say that men of authority are possessed by greed, that no matter who they were - no matter how good or great they were to begin with, the office they are granted twists their mind until they are nigh indistinguishable from the person they once were.

That absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Ser Aymeric de Borel, Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, now Speaker of the House of Lords, was certainly no stranger to lofty titles and positions of authority. Nor was he unprepared for the duties thrust upon him - he _had_ been raised as nobility, after all. He had gone through his struggles, just as they all had - the nation had been at war. And he came out on top, did he not, ready as he was to lead his people into the skeptical yet accepting embrace of the Eorzean Alliance? Most who knew him would say there was no kinder person, no better man for the job in all of the realm. And so it was with unanimous convictions and resounding applause that the mantle of responsibility was laid upon his shoulders once more, for the betterment of Ishgard and her people.

However, as he himself said... "It is not in man's nature to change overnight."

And thus nobody realized the danger until it was far, far too late.

* * *

It began, as most things do, in secret.

"One last thing," Lucia paused as she made to leave Aymeric’s office. "My lord, the soldiers have finished packaging the last of the Heaven's Ward's effects. Where shall I have it be brought? The usual storerooms are at capacity."

"You may bring them here," he said, gesturing at the patches of empty room around him. "I believe I can spare the space. Besides, I may wish to examine their contents myself, out of curiosity if nothing else.” And he owed it to his former allies to make sure their families received the full story, for the sake of their shared history and service to the realm.

“By your leave.” She motioned to the men waiting outside, who brought in several heavy-looking crates and stacked them neatly beside the door before saluting and departing, leaving him alone in a room now _slightly_ less tidy than it had started the day as. It seemed only yesterday that the Warrior of Light had defeated Nidhogg, the Houses of Lords and Commons had been formed, and the Count de Durendaire’s fervent pleas pushed him to accept his new role of House Speaker, though realistically he knew that it had been several moons since and the Warrior in question had been summoned to some destination unknown and unreachable. The Scions were silent on the matter, but Estinien had been keeping him apprised as much as he could.

The Warrior of Light. He remembered how surprised he had been, that they were so willing to align themselves to Ishgard’s cause. At first it had not seemed as such - after all, they and their companions had had little choice, having but recently fled a rather unfortunately-ended banquet, and their allies gone missing along the way. 

How differently would it have gone, he wonders, if he and Lucia had still been in the room on that fateful day? Would he have been able to save them all? Or would he and Lucia, too, be on the run from Ul’danian justice, and all of his work in establishing his good name in Ishgard gone to naught? His late father still on the throne, a thousand-year war unended and the Church’s power indisputable and unquestioned. The Heaven's Ward, those supposed pinnacles of goodness and justice and the personal guard of the Archbishop himself, would still hold an invisible sway over the people - highborn and lowborn alike.

And at the head of it all, Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin. He remembered distinctly how surprised everyone had been that the late Archimandrite had not been made Lord Commander, but rather a bastard son of a noble house had been elevated to that position - and not even one of the High Houses, at that! It had been unthinkable. If Aymeric's own behavior had not been beyond reproach he would not be sitting in this seat today. And yet despite it all the knight carried on as if nothing had happened and accepted Ser Vellguine's offer of a role at the head of the Heaven's Ward instead.

_Zephirin never did get over that, did he? He certainly brought it up at the Vault enough._

The scars on his back twinged with remembrance. He chuckled elegantly to himself. "Zephirin the Just", indeed.

Aymeric stood up from his desk and walked over to the long crates, opening them one by one. What had they left behind? Much the same as any of his knights lost to the Dragonsong War - Memorabilia, photos, potions, spare armor, and more. At least there was no shortage of inheritance to return to their loved ones. He was all-too-familiar with delivering the sorrowful news, and it always went worse for the both of them when there was nothing left to pass on (as had happened many times due to dragonfire). 

It was never easy for him to tell a family that they now had to mourn a child. 

(It never got easier, either.)

He paused at a glint of metal. Reaching in, he felt the pommel of what had to be a rather heavy sword - slightly weightier than even Naegling, in fact. He gasped quietly as he realized in his hands he held the last true greatsword of the Heaven’s Ward, Zephirin’s very own blade - Shattered Heart. It was a thing of beauty, bright blue and white throughout, thick sharpened steel, with a handle of not-quite-Borel blue nearly one and half times the length of his own. He remembered how whispers followed Zephirin through his career, that no truly holy knight could ever have wielded a weapon usually associated with evil. How valiantly the man had fought with this very blade, ever trying to prove his worth.

How fitting it was, Aymeric thought with a wry smile, that it ended up in this office after all.

Unexpected pain lanced through his head, as if pierced. He let go of the handle and rubbed his temples, attempting to massage it away. Had he overdone it again? Lucia did keep telling him to take it easy, but it seemed with all that his new office required, there was always more to do, even more so than his former station. 

_So it has come to this...Very well, then._

He froze. What?


	2. Resonant Remnants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a nation haunted by reflections of the past, Aymeric gives in to the darkness within to save his people.  
> The court of Ishgardian justice is put through its own trial by fire.  
> No one is safe.
> 
> Chapter 2: Resonant Remants  
> A visit to the markets leaves Aymeric feeling conflicted.  
> And there's that mysterious voice again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be slowly become a dark!Aymeric fic.  
> You have been warned.
> 
> HW spoilers, and brief mention of 5.0 relic crafting/gathering questline.  
> Takes place during Shadowbringers, but no 5.0 MSQ spoilers yet.

The silence in the room seemed suffocating.

“...Hello?” 

He opened the door of his office and peeked out. The stairwell was empty. Strange.

“Ser Handeloup,” he called, coming down the steps to the main chamber of the Congregation. He heard the scrape of wood on stone as the Second Commander stood up from the meeting table and saluted him. 

“My lord,” Handeloup said, standing at attention. “You have an uncanny gift for making in an appearance in reality not long after thought. I was moments from coming upstairs myself.”

“At ease.” 

The knight relaxed his stance, allowing a small grin.

“What can I do for you, Lord Commander?”

“Since Ser Lucia and her entourage left, have there been any other visitors?”

Handeloup shakes his head. “No, my lord. Only myself.” 

“I see…” Aymeric frowned, pensive. Perhaps he ought to take a break after all. “I have a mind to browse the stalls at the Jeweled Crozier for lunch. Do you wish to join me?”

“As much as I would love to, I’m afraid I must decline, Lord Commander. This paperwork will not fill itself out, I am afraid.” Handeloup laughed to himself. “That was, as matter of fact, the very thing I had been planning to talk to you about. The garrison is due for an inventory update, and we did recently receive a large shipment of- well, whatever was in those boxes.”

“Some other time, then,” Aymeric said, sighing. “Though I envy you not.” He glanced over at the long table, heaped with neat stacks of papers both signed and unsigned.

“Have you had the chance to examine them? We will need to add their contents to the logbooks, once the Lords & Commons approve their addition to the garrison.”

“I have. ‘Tis naught to be concerned over - some equipment, to be sure, but I see no reason their personal effects should not be returned to their next of kin when you have the time to make the arrangements.”

“Very good, my lord. I shall see it done right away.”

“Except...” Aymeric trailed off, pausing at the door.

Confusion and foreboding warred within. Why was he feeling so reluctant to let the man investigate the contents upstairs? There was no reason for him to. And yet, something made him hesitate.

“Lord Commander?”

He shook his head, clearing it, then continued, “Leave Ser Zephirin’s belongings where they are. I wish to handle them myself.”

Ser Handeloup stared after his retreating back as he exited the Congregation. “As you say, my lord.”

* * *

The markets of the Jeweled Crozier were bustling, adventurers and Ishgardians alike drifting from stall to stall, sampling the latest wares. He took a moment to overlook the scene. 

If someone had told him 5 years ago that Ishgard would have opened her gates like this, he would have been overjoyed (if he believed them, that is).

“A beautiful sight, isn’t it, Ser Aymeric?”

He turned. 

“Mistress Ware, how are you this afternoon?”

Hilda crossed her arms. “And here I thought we were getting on, all friendly like. It’s Hilda, how many times do I gotta ask you?”

He allowed himself a small smile. “Mistress Hilda then. My question stands.”

“And I asked you mine first, didn’t I?”

“So you did.” He looked back out over the afternoon crowd. Though the majority of people he could see were still Ishgardians, there were no few number of travelers today, adding their fair share of coin to the vendors’ coffers. “Truly, ‘tis a sight to behold.”

“Aye. And we’ve you to thank for it, you know,” she says, gesturing at him.

Aymeric shook his head. “I but played my part. You know as well as I that the Warrior of Light was far more instrumental in turning our fair city upon her head.”

“Just ‘played my part’, says the man who thought he’d just march straight up to the Archbishop of the whole bloody Church and give him what for. Mental, you are.” 

This gets an unexpected laugh out of him. “Mistress Hilda, may I ever be glad of your willingness to speak your mind.”

She eyed him carefully. “You’re the only noble I’d ever believe that from, truth be told. Most of the highborn aren’t as willing to put up with my ‘disrespect’, you know.”

“Far too well, I’m afraid.” They continued to watch the Crozier in comfortable silence, until his stomach grumbles, reminding him of the reason he came to begin with. “I had initially planned to make my way to the nearest food vendor. Would you care to join me?”

Hilda looked at Aymeric incredulously. “And stand by with empty hands as you eat some fancy, overpriced quiche or something? Thanks, but no thanks.”

How quickly he forgets that ‘price is no object’ is not the rule of thumb in the Brume. Aymeric internally berated himself. “Then I suggest you recommend something that would suit, and I shall entreat the both of us,” he said with a smile. “I promise you I am no stranger to dining ‘on the go’, as the saying goes.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, as if fighting a smirk herself. “Very well then, if you insist. I’ll not let it be said I refused such a noble gift.” She leads the way, cutting through the throngs of people with the ease of one who has done it for a living. Calls followed her presence, and she spared a smile and a wave to the many merchants who recognized her as she passed by.

“Your popularity precedes you,” he notes.

Hilda replies loftily, turning back to him with a smirk, “We can’t all be parliament members,” before continuing on. 

He wondered about that. In his mind’s eye, he could see her heatedly debating new ideas with the best of them, standing up for her comrades as she always has, and utterly verbally decimating the High Houses and Commons alike. She would rise up among them all to become Madam Speaker and lead the lowborn charge in paving the way for a newer, fairer, united Ishgard.

In another time, he might have wished that she would - he could let someone else take the reins for a change. But she was much happier where she was now.

“There’s a lovely lass near the back here,” she says to him as they near the carvery, “that saves me the most scrumptious grilled sweetfish in all of Ishgard. Frine!” A woman in the distance perks her head up, 

“Hilda! I had been wondering whether you would visit me today. You want the usual, I presume?” the merchant asks, rolling up the parchment she had been drying. Then she sees Aymeric, freezes, and quickly sinks into a deep curtsy. “And the Lord Speaker himself - what an honor! What brings you to my humble stall?”

“Oh, so you _can_ be polite. I wondered if you could,” Hilda said cheekily, before he could reply.

Frine rolled her eyes. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean, my lady. I am always the pinnacle of perfection. But you, showing up to my stall in the company of nobility, now - that’s the real surprise today.”

Aymeric clears his throat surreptitiously. “If I may briefly interrupt your reunion, Mistress Frine, we have come for what I have been told,” he interjects, gesturing at Hilda, “are the best grilled sweetfish in all of Ishgard.” He smiles at her, hoping not to have given offense.

Frine blushes prettily, bringing even more color to cheeks already bitten by the steady wind. “I’m sure you have had plenty of finer dishes, my lord.”

Hilda scoffs. “Just cough up the fish treats, mistress. I didn’t drag the man all the way out here so you could sell him gold flecked chocolate lemon tarts, or whatever concoction you’ve marked up this week.” 

The poor woman looks horrified at the blatant lack of respect, but as Aymeric’s expression fails to falter, she catches herself and nods.

“It won’t be but a moment, my lord.” Frine curtsies again, and shows Hilda to the nearby locked kitchen beside the stall. He could hear her hissing quietly to his companion as she turned the key. “You didn’t tell me you were on a first-name basis with the Lord Speaker!” 

Hilda laughs. “You know as well as I that-” he managed to catch before the door shut behind them. He sighs with a faint longing for the days of near-anonymity. It seemed he couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized, these days, despite the Borel name not technically being one of the High Houses. 

As if to prove his point, a man’s cultured voice calls from behind. “Lord Speaker, greetings.” Turning, he sees the Count de Haillenarte and a manservant laden with packages. 

“And greetings to you, Lord Baurendouin. How fare you this afternoon?”

The man looks up at the skies. “If the coming rain does not turn to frost, Halone willing, then we are in for a promising harvest.”

“The roses of Haillenarte do bloom ever so delightfully,” Aymeric says. “I shall look forward to them in the coming weeks.” 

“Your words are too kind, Lord Aymeric,” replies Baurendouin, “but I thank you for them nonetheless. It is passing strange to see you at the Jeweled Crozier. I have not chanced to see you outside of the parliament for quite some time, in fact. Do you plan to relocate the manor within the building?”

“Alas, I fear such an undertaking would not benefit anyone, least of all myself.” Aymeric chuckles. “As my First Commander has repeatedly urged me, I am taking a moment for myself,” he admits. “I find myself unwilling to bear the brunt of her wrath if I were to fall asleep at my desk - yet again.” 

The nobleman laughs. “With as much time as you have spent on the recent Witchdrop referendum, it is no surprise! I would have to agree with your Ser Lucia that taking a break every once in a while does indeed do wonders for one’s state of mind.” Baurendouin then lowers his voice. “The decision may not fully be mine, of course, but do know that you have the full support of House Haillenarte. We have lost too many of our own to the Fury’s chasm, and only by Halone’s grace was my youngest spared.” 

“To say nothing of the Warrior of Light,” Aymeric reminds him.

“The _Warrior of Light_ is not Ishgardian,” his fellow peer rebuts. “Grateful to them as we all are, the ideals they have brought with them are their own.”

He wants to protest. The Warrior of Light had uprooted centuries of tradition, yes - but found truth among the roots where no one else had, and the city was all the better for it. Yet even now, several moons later, many of the elders in the High Houses refused to see reason. It drove him mad.

Still, the count would not take him saying such so lightly, and he could not afford to turn away any possible allies he may have need of in the coming years.

“Perhaps,” he allows instead.

“The changes that you have made continue to resonate throughout the city. I only pray that they will continue to be for the better,” the Count de Haillenarte cautions, before straightening. He nods at Aymeric in clear dismissal and heads off back down the alley, manservant trailing behind.

Hilda whistles softly as the men continue up the path. “Your job never ends, does it?” 

“'Tis a small price to pay for Ishgard to remain standing. Halone willing, things will soon begin to calm. I find myself looking forward to a respite, though such may be several moons ahead, I fear. There is much to be done.” He turns to Hilda, waiting with skewers of grilled sweetfish in hand as Frine watched him expectantly behind her. Any trace of prior nervousness on the merchant’s face was clearly gone - Hilda clearly must have reassured the woman he wasn’t about to cast her into the nearest tribunal cell for breaking etiquette.

“Judging by sight and scent alone, this promises to be a delightful treat,” Aymeric declared, passing over the requisite gil and then some. “I am all but certain I will return for more at a later date.” 

Frine smiled. “I will eagerly await your next visit then, my lord. A good day to you.”

“And to you, Mistress Frine.”

“Rain’s going to start coming down soon,” says Hilda. “I’ll walk you back.” She hands him the warm skewer and tears into her own with relish. He takes a tentative bite. It’s not sweet, unlike the name would have had him believe, but it’s not bad either; tender, slightly smoky, and fragrantly spiced. “There’ve been rumors of odd disappearances as of late.” 

He swallows. “Disappearances?” 

Hilda leads the way out of the crowd that has begun to thin as the hour nears the skywatchers’ predicted downpour, and they make their way back to Foundation. 

“Some of the lower clergy, I’ll admit, not temple knights, but. Well.” She takes another large bite.

Mysteriously missing priests? He would have to ask Handeloup to look into it. “I must confess, this is the first I have heard of this. How long have these disappearances been happening?” inquires Aymeric as they pass the Skysteel Manufactory. The laborers outside were hard at work covering the equipment outside with waterproof canvases. They had been a lot more active lately, with the influx of adventurers wanting to try the latest Dragonsung merchandise.

“Not more than a few weeks, I’d wager. Fair strange, it is, rumor or not.” She shrugs and finishes off the last of her skewer. “Not that I think you can’t handle yourself and all, but I’d rather you not went missing _again_ . Can’t exactly go staging _another_ rescue, now can I?”

He frowns. She was right, of course, but it pained him to admit it. Everyone has already done enough for him - more than, in fact. Hilda, Lucia, the Warrior of Light (whether they acknowledged it or not) - He owed them his life and then some. Would that he could do more to repay them. There was only so much he could accomplish behind a desk, especially if his fellow peers continued to argue about minutia and debate on anything and everything.

Hilda sighs as they both pass underneath the Arc of the Humble. “I’ve said something insensitive, haven’t I?”

Aymeric shakes his head and takes another bite. Any scars he might wear from the past were not hers to bear.

“Just merely reminiscing,” he says finally. “On the past, and how far we’ve come. Ishgard has changed so much, and as a whole we have made so much progress, but…” 

“But?” prompts Hilda, gesturing with the empty skewer.

“But it never seems to be enough. There is always more to be done. And yet, from within, it is difficult to see the results of the changes we have wrought.” They pass the emptied Aetheryte plaza, most adventurers having since teleported somewhere that planned to be drier for the next 4 hours, and he finishes off the last of the fish. 

“Even when you try and take time for yourself, it never quite ends up that way, does it?” she comments quietly as they near the Saint Valeroyant Forum. He glances over at her. Why were all the people in his life so damned perceptive?

“Not quite, no,” he acquiesces.

“You ought to take a vacation or something.” 

“If only it were that simple.”

Hilda sighs. “I know the feeling. This watch business is having me all over the city! Not that I mind, terribly - it feels nice to be useful for once. Don’t you think?”

“Indeed.” He can’t help but agree. Doing something, anything at all, was better than sitting around on his laurels and letting everyone else decide what to do next.

Before he knows it, they’ve arrived at the Congregation. 

“Well, no rest for the wicked.” She stops at the door. “I’ll catch you around.”

“I wish you a good day as well, Mistress Hilda. Do try to stay out of the rain.”

“Oh, no chance of that.”

She leaves him with a brief wink and heads in the direction of the Forgotten Knight. Amused, Aymeric watched her steadily saunter away briefly before he pushes open the doors to the now-empty Congregation. The midday patrol must have not yet returned, but he could hear the clatter of the night watch upstairs getting ready for their shift. He retreated to his office, noting with satisfaction that Ser Handeloup had finished his prior instructions to the word. Always efficient, that man was. Not a single day went by that he regretted his Second Commander’s promotion, and today was no exception.

He opens the remaining crates and begins to sort them by contents. Memorabilia here, armor there… It wasn’t long before he reached in and pulled out Zephirin’s beautiful greatsword. It was rather heavy, he thought, taking a couple of small passes with it out of curiosity, but not unbearably so. He imagined trying to do the same thing in armor and winced. It was no wonder that its wielder never used shields.

He carefully hung Shattered Heart on the wall behind the desk, as a reminder of Ishgard and her past, of where they had come from - and how far they had yet to go.

His conversation with Lord Baurendouin notwithstanding, there was still far he had to go in convincing the High Houses of anything that went against their traditions. The House of Commons, he could tell, was more receptive to his words, but both sides had to agree for anything to be passed.

Truth be told, Aymeric thought as he packed up the remainder of the supplies, if he were honest with himself… Even with as much authority as he now had, he’s never felt more powerless. 

His days of being a field knight, able to simply charge in with blade in hand and remove the evil within, were all but long gone. Simpler days, perhaps. The single cut of a sharpened blade could mean the difference between salvation and suffering. Now his only ability to make change lay in swift words and a sharper tongue - and even then, change seemed slower to come than he had been hoping for. It had been moons since Nidhogg had finally fallen, and what did he have to show for it? Hardly anything.

If only one could simply mete out justice with the stroke of a sword rather than the stroke of a pen, perhaps the change around him wouldn’t seem as glacial as the winters of Coerthas.

Then again, that method wasn’t free from faults, either.

Lives bought with the heavy cost of sacrifice. 

Rules writ with the ink of spilled blood.

Promises fulfilled by shattered shields.

Every fallen friend, a failure that could have been prevented.

Aymeric sighed, despondent. A free Ishgard only found by setting everything aflame and merely hoping to rebuild was no free Ishgard at all, for what was left for the victors but ruin and ash? One need look no further than the Brume to see that. It was better that changes were made as a whole, together as a community, even if deliberation took moons and he wanted to pull his hair out by the end of the day. 

But, he chided himself as he pulls his thoughts back into some semblance of order, that line of thinking would get him nothing but melancholy. (And perhaps hair more silver than Estinien’s.) His duty was to the people of Ishgard, not to wallow in fleeting fantasies of a world less resistant to expedient change. He finishes the last of the sweeping and sets the broom by the door.

_To deliver justice yourself...Would it not be more virtuous?_

The Lord Commander looked around, trying his best to pinpoint the voice this time, but it came from seemingly everywhere and nowhere. He rested his hand on Naegling’s handle, not drawing it, but alert. 

“Hello?”

_Are not the most righteous hands our own?_

His grip tightened. “Where are you? Show yourself!” 

Silence.

He listened, but the only other sound was the rain lightly falling on the stones outside.

What was going on?

Try as he might, Aymeric did not hear the voice again for the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have a plot!  
> Or, rumors thereof, anyway.


	3. Lingering Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a nation haunted by reflections of the past, Aymeric gives in to the darkness within to save his people.  
> The court of Ishgardian justice is put through its own trial by fire.  
> No one is safe.
> 
> Chapter 3: Lingering Will  
> The separation of church and state isn't going nearly as well as Aymeric would like.  
> A familiar face makes a strange offer.  
> And somewhere, a mysterious letter from no one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HW spoilers, 5.0 event mentions but no major spoilers.

The Warrior of Light’s eyes stared at Aymeric accusingly.

“I fight your battles. I uncover your truth.” 

_This isn’t right,_ he thinks. _The Warrior is not in Ishgard. They’re not even on this_ world _, if rumor were to be believed._

Their gestures get wilder with every sentence they spit out.

“And this is how you repay me? My sweat and tears?”

“No!”

“With inaction? Indecisiveness?”

“My friend, I-” Aymeric uselessly protested as his stomach churned unpleasantly with guilt.

“Spare me.” They cross their arms and sniff scornfully. “You’re just yet _another_ silver-tongued politician who fails to live up to the words they say. It’s no wonder nothing gets done around there without me.” Their words sting as if he has been slapped.

Turning their back, they toss a final remark over their shoulder.

“Maybe I should have left Ishgard to burn. I daresay the _dragons_ were more amenable to change.” 

Heart beating furiously, he tries to stop them from walking away, but his feet feel as if mired in quicksand. He falls to his knees, and the ground changes to stone below him.

From above, a voice calls to him, “You know very well they speak the truth.”

 _No. Halone have mercy, not from him too,_ Aymeric thought desperately. _Please._

He cast his gaze up. The former Azure Dragoon had never looked at him so dispassionately.

“The root of the conflict may have been excised, yet Ishgard has come no further than the day we last spoke.”

They stood now at a precipice. The fierce winds tugged at him as lightning flashed in the distance, threatening in its beauty.

“Estinien, please-”

“The fair city’s charms are lacking these days. Perhaps I shall simply excuse myself from her company altogether. And yours.” 

Spear in hand, the silver-haired elezen makes to leap off the cliff. 

“ _Estinien!_ ” A voice cries out in despair. 

It dawns on him that it is his own.

Aymeric’s body sprints towards the dragoon, time slowing as he tries his damnedest to reach him before he never sees the man again. He lunges and misses, and the edge of the floating island tricks its way beneath his foot.

He is falling, 

_falling,_

( f a i l i n g )

Aymeric awoke in his bed with a jolt.

The sounds of chatter outside and his staff making their way around the manor did little to quell his racing heart.

A dream.

It had been a dream.

His shoulders sagged, weariness winding its way around them. 

An inauspicious start to an important day, he thought, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm his awakened nerves. He could ill afford to be distracted. Aymeric wiped the moisture off his face and rolled out of bed. 

Try as he might, he is unable to shake the effects of the morning’s nightmare by the time he reaches Parliament. 

The milling Lords and Ladies chatted amongst themselves, pausing briefly as he passed them to nod in greeting. He makes his way around the room, gathering the state of today’s affairs. The High Houses and their retainers commanded most of the attention, as always, while the lesser houses flocked either to them or to circles of their own. After entirely too many repeated greetings Aymeric finally takes a minute to pour himself a drink from the nearest table, its banner of stone on crimson hanging brightly above. 

However slowly the wheels of change turned, it was always good to see the people become invested in their movement. 

“Lord Speaker, a good morning to you.” Aymeric held in a sigh. Was five minutes of silence too much to ask for?

“Good morning to you as well, Lord Tedalgrinche.” 

The Dzemael knight looks him over carefully, taking in the shadows and slight redness in the corners of his eyes. If he didn’t know better, he would say the uptight blonde was smirking - but honestly, the knight’s face just always looked like that, so he’d taught himself to not take anything he said at face value. 

“The morning has barely begun,” he says haughtily, “yet I think you would rather the day over already. Is this not so?”

Ah, so it _had_ been a smirk. Well, then. The game begins already.

Aymeric smiles wryly, lamenting his lost opportunity to engender positive thoughts for the morning. Halone save him from the joys of politics, he thinks to himself. Who needed a sword when a metaphorical dagger in the back worked just as well? 

“Whether the length of the day remains as long as the skywatchers' predictions indicate, or miraculously shortens to a more bearable duration, I shall continue to remain optimistic for favorable outcomes during today’s proceedings,” Aymeric finally says aloud, resiliently hopeful that the day might yet turn in his favor. 

Unfortunately, the universe seemed out to prove him wrong at every turn.

* * *

“The Ayes to the right; twenty-seven.“

He wants to curse. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“The Nays to the left; forty-five. The Nays have it, then.”

Damn it all.

“If there are no further motions to bring to the table, I call this meet of the Lords & Commons to a close. Halone’s blessings and a good day to you all.”

There was some chatter and mild grumbling as the room began to empty. However, save for some fair few, not too many people seemed to be unhappy with the state of affairs overall. It was disheartening, almost. Progress seemed to slip from within his grasp nearly regularly now. The Church had been more successful than he had liked with their propaganda campaigns, and some of the Lords had begun to take up their cries. 

Declarations from more outspoken priests proclaiming “The impassionate court of Witchdrop is Her sacred and unassailable judgement hall” and “Anyone who falls in must have earned the wrath of Halone” did much more to enkindle a nation’s failing faith in justice than one man trying to convince the ruling class that the trial was outright barbaric and - really, couldn’t just _some_ of the resources from building the Firmament go towards fencing the area off? 

Everyone was due their right to a trial by jury of their peers - not just inquisitors and other church-affiliated institutions. Why was that so hard for people to grasp? The House of Commons had agreed with him, but not enough had showed their faces to make a difference, and some people who had not grown up with money were easily bribed into ignoring their morals and staying at home rather than actually voting for change in their country.

Aymeric held in a sigh. He had never intended Ishgard to refashion herself as a colder imitation of the Ul’dahn Syndicate.

If the resources for the people of the Brume to have a healthy and happy life had been freely available to begin with, perhaps the laws of the land wouldn’t be in quite the predicament they were today. (And perhaps the city’s rejoining the world would be more widely embraced, rather than eyed with caution.) The Firmament’s construction went a long way towards mending that gap, but he wondered how long that good will would last.

Indefinitely, he fervently hoped.

“Pardon, Lord Speaker!” A young man calls to him, pulling Aymeric away from his dispirited train of thought. “If I may have a word?”

“Lord Artoirel, it is always good to see you,” Aymeric says. “How fares your father these days - is he enjoying retirement?” 

The newest Count de Fortemps laughs. It is a bright note after the sour taste the voting results had left in his mouth. “My father has turned his energies towards worrying over my brother and myself, these days. Still, it is good to see him looking- well, better than he used to, at any rate. I, for one, am merely glad to be able to alleviate his stresses in some way.” The knight looks him over, eyes furrowing at the lack of restful sleep plainly writ on his face. “If I may speak plainly, he would agree with me that you seem to be in need of some time off yourself, Lord Aymeric.” 

Aymeric smiles despite himself. “Is that so? Be that as it may, time halts for no one, and I can not abandon Ishgard to the whims of others merely so I can sleep a few extra winks.”

Artoirel shrugs. “True that may be, but ‘twould not be false were I to say that you out of all of us have been striving the hardest towards our new future. I do not think any here would begrudge you taking some time off to rest.” His expression turns troubled. “Though, with the recent trends these votes have been taking lately, I can not say that I blame you for staying the course.” 

The boy whom he once saw as a youth walking hand in hand with his father and brother had grown into a fine knight, determined to learn all he could to serve his family and his country. He would make an even finer politician one day, once he had more experience under his belt. In the meantime, however, he was yet another youthful face made to grow up too soon. He would do his best to watch over him carefully, until the day he, too, could expertly navigate the political maelstrom that is their newly-formed government.

They sit in the emptying room as the remaining Lords exit, the room growing quieter with each face that leaves the room. Artoirel looks down for a brief moment, seemingly lost in thought. “Today… This win should have been simple,” he says, voice unusually soft. “And yet the opposition from the Church is greater than it seems. I can not believe it is the will of Halone that innocent bystanders perish merely due to a single misstep into the bottomless chasm. One, I might add, that House Fortemps continues to watch over, as well as the Steel Vigil. I do not envy my brother his increased workload.”

“Nor I,” Aymeric replies pensively. Ser Emmanellain had taken to his duties with vigor, but there was only so much they could do against multiple fronts. He had hoped today’s motion to seal off Witchdrop would have alleviated the youngest Lord’s burden, but… Alas. “Though at the very least I do believe we at last convinced Lord Forlemort to keep a closer eye on the stars over Providence Point. Ser Jannequinard will no doubt be pleased to hear that as well, especially after what the reports tell me happened there with Lady Leleva.”

The younger lord smiles. “Aye, that is true. ‘Twas no small victory, that. Would that we had more of them.” He turns to Aymeric as the clock tower begins to chime. “The will of this entrenched institution yet lingers, Ser Aymeric. I only pray Ishgard can rise above it.” He bows and bids Aymeric farewell, leaving him to gather his notes from the session and retreat to the Seat of the Lord Commander.

* * *

Handeloup looks up as he enters the building. “My Lord, you have returned. I trust the session went well?”

Shaking his head, Aymeric hangs up his overcoat. “Only as well as they ever have been, Ser Handeloup. The sessions we host are home to both wins and losses. Today’s was no different.”

“The battlegrounds we watch over see their own fair share - I for one, am glad the losses we sustain on the fields of Parliament do not end in loss of life.”

Aymeric frowns. “The motion that failed to pass today may very well have saved lives - should that not mean those that failed to pass it must weigh any futures lost on their own countenances?” 

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not,” the Second Commander says. He taps his lips in thought. “You know I’ve never been one for philosophy, my Lord, but ‘twould seem to me that heaping this solely on your own shoulders helps no one - least of all yourself. Hold the group as a whole accountable if you must, but you are not singlehandedly responsible for every decision Parliament makes or does not make.” 

“Not one for philosophy, so you say,” counters Aymeric, “Yet you still manage to scavenge wisdom for me when I need it most. You have my thanks, good Ser.” He takes a deep breath, feeling a small weight slide off with no small measure of relief. 

Handeloup merely grins at him and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the papers in front of him. 

“Ser Lucia recommended I keep an eye on you in her absence, though she promised to be back by this afternoon. She left our reports on those disappearances for you upstairs before she left. I hope hers was more helpful than mine - none of the knights I’ve spoken with say they have heard anything about missing priests at all.”

“Halone willing, the intelligence within shall prove the missing persons to be merely rumors after all,” replies Aymeric, before heading to his office.

On his desk, he sees evidence of Lucia’s handiwork - a small stack of neatly-penned reports, and a fresh-brewed pot of tea nearby on a fire-crystal powered kettle warmer, and his favourite cup next to it. 

He really could not have chosen a better First Commander, Aymeric thinks, picking up the top sheaf of papers and skimming through it.

_My Lord Commander,_

_Enclosed are the Watch’s accounts on the matter we last spoke of, transcribed and altered slightly for comprehension purposes. It seems your source was correct._

_It worries me that these disappearances have not become widely known - and in fact have been hidden quite thoroughly. Were I limited to the resources of the Temple Knights, we would never have discovered them. Handeloup has said he knows nothing of them, and I am inclined to believe him. The man is great at handling our administrative tasks, and competent besides, but sometimes the things that lurk in the shadows elude his watchful gaze._

_Indeed I have Hilda to thank for most of our investigative results. Luckily she is not one to hold things over our heads._

_I feel a change coming in the air. Something strange is afoot. I know not what, but my spy’s instinct has never yet served me wrong, and I do not believe it has done so this time either. Take care of yourself, and keep an eye out when you head home tonight._

_Respectfully Yours,_

_Lucia goe Junius_   
_First Commander, Temple Knights_

If Lucia said that she was worried...then perhaps he ought to as well. Yet what could he do about it? 

Aymeric sets the missive aside and pours himself a cup of tea. 

Yet another failing under his watch.

He shakes his head, his unoccupied fist clenching involuntarily. What good were all of his resources, if people disappeared in the streets and the citizens knew about it before he did? What good were his skills, if he could not use them and had to get all of his intelligence from others? How useful could he be if he was constantly babysitting a group of church-mad lordlings that couldn’t tell right from wrong unless it was pointed out to them?

_What if you had the power to change that?_

This again. Aymeric quickly sets his tea down, only to be blinded by an unexpected bright flash of light. He blinked, trying to get the spots out of his vision, only to find that his chair was now occupied by the spitting image of -

But no, it couldn’t be. The eyes before him held a darker glow that Zephirin’s never would have.

“Who are you, and how did you appear here?” he asks.

The blonde spread his arms wide in a mocking gesture of welcome.

“Ser Aymeric, do you not recognize me?”

“The Ascian threat is not unknown to these parts,” Aymeric says, eyes narrowing dangerously. “You are certainly no Zephirin de Valhourdin. Name yourself or begone with you.”

His hand rests heavy on Naegling’s hilt, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. The man before him scoffs, rolling golden eyes.

“No - I am not one of your feared Paragons. Yet neither am I the Ser Zephirin you once knew. Perhaps I could have been...” The blonde looks away, slightly wistful, as if he had been offered the world’s greatest treasure only to have it snatched out from between his fingertips. He shakes his head and looks back up at Aymeric. “But what’s done is done. For now, you may call me Levant.”

Interesting.

“Ser Levant, then. Why, and how, have you appeared before me?”

“No, just Levant.”

Aymeric furrowed his brow in consternation.

“Ah, but I suppose you wanted an answer or two, rather than admonishment over silly titles, yes?" He nods. "Very well, then. I shall put it thusly.”

The knight walks over to the wall behind the desk, staring at the broadsword hanging there.

“Such a vast history this sword has, and you use her for decoration. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“It is in fact due to its history,” Aymeric says, “rather than in spite of it, that it rests there.”

“Yes, I remember. A reminder of the past, you had said, did you not?” Levant plucks it out of the case where it hangs on the wall.

“The man you called Zephirin de Valhourdin was a slave to the will of another, from the moment he was blessed by the Archbishop,” he says casually, as if he hadn’t just shaken Aymeric’s world to its core. “Loyal to Thordan to a fault, at the detriment of his own mind and well-being. No matter if he had disagreed with anything he was asked to do, he simply could not defy the man. It drove him to the brink of selfdestruction, yet he could not bring himself to care. And in the end, he surrendered his mind itself to the blessing, to gain the power that his master coveted.”

“...Be that as it may,” Aymeric says finally, releasing his grip from the hilt of his blade, “I note you still have yet to answer me.”

Levant exhales a deep breath, leaning back against the desk. 

“I suppose in some small way I remain as his lingering will - a testament to the man he could have been, were he not tormented by his lost ability to act on his terms. Were he not haunted by memories, burdened by guilt. Reminders of the past, if you will.” 

Aymeric determinedly does _not_ think how that sounds a bit too close for comfort.

“He wished to be free to follow his heart - to defend his people and punish the guilty as he saw fit. A desire that I very much sense is echoed in your own heart, is it not?”

The spirit glances at him and hums, looking him over carefully. Those glowing eyes seem to pierce straight through his soul.

“I suggest it is time and past you did something about that. For yourself.”

For himself? Ishgard and her people came first - as they always had, and as they always would.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had put himself first.

It didn’t matter.

“Not for the sake of morals, nor for what others will expect from you - but for you, and what you _know_ beyond all measure of a doubt to be the right path.” 

Or did it? He wasn’t so sure anymore. Levant’s words seemed to be boring into his skull. 

“Zephirin had no need for shields figurative nor literal. He sought the strength to defend his faith and his land, and, when I could, I granted it to him - though in the end it was not enough for him. There is only so much one can do against the might of a dragon’s eye, without the blessing of a goddess. A pity...He shall be missed.”

His mind seemed foggy. What magic was this?

Levant hefts Shattered Heart carefully, then turns it blade-down, and holds the greatsword out to him by the handle. 

“Ser Aymeric de Borel, I see in you the same desires, the same drive, the same devotion - therefore I make you the same offer. Are you willing to take justice into your own hands, or are you merely content to do nothing?”

  
  


It should have been a simple answer. 

Just refuse him outright. He had no business dabbling in these sort of powers.

Just tell him no, Aymeric thought to himself. Why can’t I just tell him no?

And yet, Aymeric hesitated. 

It was tempting. Leaving the trappings of a desk behind. 

To have the power to actually make _real_ change again… 

“Well?”

He can’t. 

Couldn’t he?

He won’t.

There was too much at stake.

Aymeric pulls the last vestiges of resistance from within him and shakes his head, clearing his mind.

The lack of sleep must be getting to him, he thinks, for him to even have considered it.

“No.”

“No?” The pale-haired man looks at him, surprised, and lowers Shattered Heart. “And whyever not?”

“The power you offer is tainted,” Aymeric asserts, shakily crossing his arms. ”Accepting your offer would be akin to being willingly stood in the flames of Ifrit. I would not soon plunge my city into chaos for the mere want of expediency.”

Levant quirks his eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Aymeric straightens his weary shoulders and nods. “That is my decision.”

The embodied spirit sighs. “I had hoped… Still, it _is_ your decision to make. I will not yet rob you of this." He shook his head and placed the sword carefully back in its place on the wall. “And so, you too, are content to be confined to the restricted reality of the spoken word. Very well. I will not gainsay your dedication to duty, but I wonder if you will ever be prepared to face the facts.”

“Facts?” he replies, warily.

Levant turns back to him. “That one day, Ser Aymeric, it will not be enough,” he says, taking a confident step forward. “That one day, you will awaken to the reality of your situation.” His golden eyes seemingly bore into Aymeric, as if staring straight through him. “That one day, you will tire of this endless struggle, and the futility of all your efforts weighing incessantly heavy on your shoulders.

Before his eyes, the edges of Levant's shadow glow, and he begins to dissolve into gleaming blue and white motes.

“One day, you will come before me, and I shall be waiting with open arms to release you from your burdens and deliver you unto salvation.” His knowing smile is the last to disappear.

_“When that day comes, you need only ask.”_

The spirit’s final words echo from within him before silencing, leaving Aymeric alone to collapse, suddenly exhausted, into a chair. He rests his head in his hands, heartbeat thrumming in his ears, and rubs his temples in an attempt to clear his troubled thoughts. 

Deep within, the coals of the abyss begin to smoulder and spark, unnoticed.

* * *

Unwatched, an unsigned letter within an unmarked envelope made its way through the streets of Ishgard, passing from person to person, until eventually it arrived at its destination. The contents within signaled the beginnings of tempestuous times in the days ahead.

The city was not prepared - nor could they have been, for the wheels of change were slowly beginning to turn...

_Father,_

_I am pleased to report our preparations are nearly complete. The first of the Examples will be displayed on the morrow._

_With any luck, this will give the blasphemers the chance to rethink where their loyalties lie, but I shall not hold my breath for want of a response anytime soon. The Endalimate are preparing yet more as I write this to you, though we continue to do our utmost to keep to the shadows. We neither want - nor can we afford - a repeat of the Brotherhood’s failures._

_Lest you think us unwilling to uphold our end of the bargain, please receive the enclosed token as proof of our commitment._

_Blessed are we who abide in Her grace, for we shall never be forsaken. Through devotion we may yet stall Her wrath and once more shepherd the truly righteous of Ishgard unto our rightful place in Her hallowed kingdom._

_May the Fury guide and protect you._

_\- Your Faithful Servant_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very tired of Ishgardian politics. Can you tell?


	4. Cry Havoc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a nation haunted by reflections of the past, Aymeric gives in to the darkness within to save his people.  
> The court of Ishgardian justice is put through its own trial by fire.  
> No one is safe.
> 
> Chapter 4: Cry Havoc  
> An overnight security lapse causes chaos in Foundation.  
> Aymeric prepares to deal with the fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 event mentions but no major spoilers. Please mind the updated tags for new CWs.

Within the halls of the Bokairo Inn, a lone dragoon reads an elegantly-scripted missive from abroad. 

_Dear friend,_

_I do hope you are staying out of trouble, though per my recent intelligence I believe the plan is to involve yourself in it quite thoroughly._

_Imagine my surprise when Mistress Tataru sent me word of whom she had discovered in Kugane! Indeed had I known you were to travel so far abroad I would have sent ahead requests for souvenirs, perhaps. Alas, it seems it is your turn to play the hero, rather than the rest and relaxation I know you so had desperately craved. I shall instead pray for your safety and success in said endeavors from the sidelines._

_Nothing has changed overmuch here since my last letter, save for the impressive changes made to the Firmament. Lord Francel's initiative continues to make considerable progress, though the falling snows continue to impede the district’s construction as they always have been wont to do. May the trail you lead take you through much more hospitable climes, my friend._

_Ishgard is much diminished for your absence. Perhaps when the Warrior returns they will convince your new minders to release you from their unshakeable grasp. I, for one, shall try my utmost to continue keeping our city safe until your eagerly-awaited return - as you well know I always have done._

_Wishing you fair weather and peaceful skies on your journey,_

_Aymeric de Borel_

With no one around to observe him, Estinien softly smiles and folds the letter into a pocket, where it joins its place with the others.

* * *

Screams split the silence in the morning light. 

“Alright, move along!” Hilda’s sharp voice could be heard over the increasing din of panicked muttering in Saint Valeroyant’s Forum. “This is official Watch business now. This area’s off limits, you hear me?” 

Eudestand and Stymme were in the background, draping undyed linen over strewn pieces of a heavily mangled body. More of the Hounds were busy keeping the crowd at bay, letting the investigators do their work unhindered. They were lucky the beginnings of their cleanup had been finished before the morning crowd awoke. Someone had taken their time to very deliberately carve into the man’s armless torso in ugly, jagged letters: UNWORTHY. 

If that had gotten out...Well. The church would’ve had a field day, to say the least.

She didn’t need more confusion and chaos than there already was.

“And how are we to know your _dogs_ were not the ones that put him there?!” a noblewoman spat, then continued bawling, hiding her tear-stained face in a kerchief. As her accusatory words spread, the cacophony grew even louder, and the people congregating in the Forum began to shout demands for answers. 

Hilda glared, steely eyes flashing. “I said, clear out!” She drew her trusty firearm and shot a blank into the grey skies. “Now!”

Hearing the shot, an older elezen about to enter the Congregation turned his head instead back to them, frowning over at the mob. “Lords, Ladies - Surely this bedlam brings us nothing but frustration and anger,” the man declares, walking towards the gathered crowd. At his words, several heads turned and the din of the lesser nobles began to quiet. The crest of Haillenarte shone brightly, pinned on his alpine outerwear. “I suggest we allow the good investigators to do their job and continue our days. What say you?” 

The crowd discussed among themselves, then reluctantly dispersed in the face of subtly-pulled rank. The ghost of pandemonium remained heavy in the air, however, coating the atmosphere in its thick tension.

“Much appreciated, Count Baurendouin.” She nodded at him and holstered her weapon, countenance betraying none of the nerves she felt. No matter how many times had she spoken with her teacher’s father since the tourney she’d helped them win, she never felt quite right directly addressing a member of the High Houses. It wasn’t as if he was exactly approachable, either - he held neither the charms nor the manner that Aymeric did that made him so easy for her to talk to. _He_ never insisted her speech strictly follow etiquette, at least.

The nobleman gifted her a rare smile. “My eldest has been doing naught but lavishing praise upon the good your Watch has been doing for the city, Mistress Ware. Full glad am I to see one of his own having made something better for herself.” 

“Lord Stephanivien has always been kind. I’m grateful to him.” To say the least, she thought, reminiscing. Stephanivien had given her more than just a weapon that day. He’d given her the power to change her path - and she had fiercely gripped her future tightly with both hands and forged her own fate with flames and steel. 

She would never forget the way she shook after the very first bullet she’d ever fired. The feeling of the trigger beneath her finger, and the shockwave that came thereafter. 

It’d felt like freedom, and the song of that blast had resonated within her soul.

She’d been alive ever since.

“That being said,” the count continued, surveying the emptied Forum, “Some of the lesser nobility - as you well know, given that business with the Baroness - will be more reluctant to accept your authority. Too long have they spent their energies devoted to raising themselves up by trodding on the backs of those they perceived as their inferiors.”

Hilda nodded. Her time in the Brume attested to that. She’d seen it every day. Her Hounds did as well, some more intimately than others. She only wished she could do more for them. A job was a good start, more than some thought they’d ever get. But merely having an occupation did not necessarily a secure residence make, and they could no more slip the leash of poverty than the Firmament could be constructed in a day.

“Yet as Lord Aymeric has said, the future yet presents a chance to begin anew. To rebuild our nation upon a foundation of truth and equality. I pray in time, they too, will come to see this as fact.”

“I hope so,” she replied quietly.

Eventually, _eventually_ the right time would come, and both nobility and lowborn would be able to come together without sabotage, or threats of kidnappings, or even just plain rude remarks. She knew it would, one day. 

And she had good faith in her allies - Aymeric was laboring under the strain of two powerful positions, but was even now working diligently on the reforms that were so desperately needed. Stephanivien and Joye helped her uncover a small conspiracy to unseat him, and successfully returned a fancy sword in the process. Even Muscadain had come around, after that. Wasn’t that sufficient proof that all they needed was more time? 

She only hoped that time did not come too late for her compatriots. 

“This...grim display.” Lord Baurendouin’s words interrupted her thoughts. “It is unlike anything I have seen.” 

“Me neither, and I’ve seen quite a lot, beggin’ your pardon.” Hilda replied, crossing her arms. She looked out at her Hounds finishing the last of the work, Symme speaking hesitantly with the investigators. Their stores of undyed cloth covered the worst of the stains, but she knew what lay underneath. When Eudestand had alerted her that morning there was a dead body in the Saint Valeroyant’s Forum fountain, she was practically shocked awake. She’d sat straight up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and sent him over to get word to Lord Aymeric straight away.

Honestly, a murder? In Foundation? 

And the body _hadn’t_ been left in the Brume?

Someone _desperately_ must’ve wanted to make a statement. 

The count looked at her gravely. “The truth of what has happened here today is as obscured by the fog sweeping in from the Sea of Clouds. I should very much like to see this investigation brought to a swift conclusion. Pray keep me informed.” 

“I’ll do that.”

“You have my thanks. Halone guide and protect you.” Lord Baurendouin nodded at her and continued on his way to the Congregation. 

* * *

“What do you _mean_ , they were all on break?” 

“That is what the records state, my Lord, though you are more than welcome to check them for yourself.” Handeloup scratched his head in confusion. “I know not how this came to pass, but I assure you we are trying our utmost to get to the bottom of it.”

Aymeric took the papers his Second Commander proffered, perplexed. Sure enough, they were filled out exactly as the man had said - a clear space in the Forum’s watch had been left for the span of a single bell. A single bell that, until the past night, had been fully covered every single time he had ever reviewed the guard’s schedule. He glared in futility at the words, as if by his mere gaze alone he could change their contents to somehow provide some sort of reasoning for the gap in security, but the text remained stubbornly unaltered.

A knock sounds on the door to the Seat of the Lord Commander. Lucia opens it narrowly and calls to the guardsman through the gap. “State your business.”

“Ser Lucia, the Count de Haillenarte is here to see Lord Aymeric,” he replies, saluting.

“Show him up,” says Aymeric. Lucia, now seated across from him, takes the papers from his hand and begins to go over them with a practiced eye while they wait.

The guard knocks once more, pushes the door open and bows the Count into the room before exiting back to his post. “Greetings, Lord Commander. I thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” He looks around the room, seeing Lucia & Handeloup reviewing the files scattered on Aymeric’s desk. “I pray I am not interrupting anything, Sers.”

Aymeric shakes his head. “Merely paperwork, and a lengthy discussion on what I presume you have come to see me about.”

“By your leave, milord, I shall return to my position downstairs,” says Handeloup, looking up from his pile. “I can review this at the conference table just as well as I can in your office.” 

“Granted. Pray keep me informed if you find anything.” The man salutes him and Lucia, bows courteously to Count Haillenarte, and leaves, closing the door quickly behind him. Aymeric turns his attention back to the Count. “May I offer you some tea, Lord Baurendouin?” He gestures to the half-full kettle the three of them had been nursing all morning.

_So subservient, aren’t you?_

The corners of his lips tightened imperceptibly. Levant had been at it all morning. He’d tried to remove Shattered Heart from the wall last night, but it had somehow (perhaps magically?) become affixed to its display. So now he was stuck with the spirit and his constant commentary.

“You didn’t really think I’d let you get rid of us so easily, did you?” Levant had whispered into his mind, chuckling darkly as he tried and failed to pry the greatsword from its fixture. “So soon after we’ve met? Why, we’ve barely gotten to know one another.”

As much as he wished, he could not bring himself to ask someone else to remove it. Besides, surely it would look awfully suspicious if he asked them to take it away right after he had made the decision to keep it, would it not?

And then he would have to explain.

“Nothing to worry about - ‘tis merely a spirit trapped in a speaking sword that happens to appear as the ghost of someone I knew and had killed. No, you can not see him because he may or may not be a figment of the imagination attempting to entice me to channel my inner emotions into righteous vengeance. You have nothing to worry about, truly, everything is fine.”

 _That_ would go well. 

The kindest response he might have would be a firm “encouragement” to take a vacation, for clearly the stress was weighing too heavily on his shoulders. Perhaps his staff would think him mad - or possessed, even. He could hear them now. “The burden of all his positions must have gotten to him,” they would say, looking at him worryingly, before quietly shunting him to the background and appointing someone else in his place.

At worst, he would be locked away in a Tribunal cell faster than he could blink an eye. 

Aymeric shuddered internally.

_Never again._

No, it was better to handle this situation - however well he could - on his own.

* * *

Hilda arrives at Aymeric’s office, knocking as the evening bell finishes chiming for supper.

“Come in,” he calls, rubbing his eyes. A full day of work, _again_ , and barely any progress to show for it. Levant’s needling hadn’t been helping either. 

He _knew_ this paperwork was tedious and slow. He did not require a bodiless spirit to tell him thus.

At least his evening would end on a better note, hopefully.

The beleaguered woman enters the Seat of the Lord Commander and shuts the door firmly behind her. 

“Mistress Hilda, good evening. You have news, I trust?” He gestures at the seat in front of him, which she gratefully takes, pouring herself the last dregs of the tea without prompting and downing it in one. 

“My Hounds’n I’ve been up and down and around the city since sunrise gettin’ the blasted info. I’m so tired I could fall asleep in this chair.” Hilda shakes her head, weary crimson eyes staring forlornly at her empty teacup. “Between nobles wanting immediate answers to questions I can’t magically know, inquistors tryin’ to take my men in for questionin’ just for lookin’ at ‘em funny, and tryin’ to figure out how the bloody hells I’m supposed to stop the clergy magically cleansin’ the area so investigators can actually take a proper gander at it, I was lucky to get any info at all.”

“Perhaps _you_ are the one who needs time to yourself,” Aymeric sympathizes. “Long morning though it may have been, your man’s warning was invaluable. You have my thanks.”

Hilda grins tiredly at him. “I’m just glad Eudestand made it to you in time before word got out.” 

“Indeed,” replies Aymeric. “Though your friend _did_ appear to be shaking with nerves. It was rather strange; I do not usually have that effect on people.” 

She looks him and his finery up and down, raising an eyebrow silently. 

Levant laughs at him. _I like her. At least_ she _is not afraid to speak her mind, hmm?_

He clears his throat and looks away, feeling his face heating. “What news do you have for me?”

“The body was abandoned around 2-3 bells past midnight, or so we think.” She pulls her notes from the day out of her bag and hands them over. “The investigator’s said he’ll let us know for sure one way or the other in a few days.”

That synced up with the gap in security perfectly. Too much so. He lays the papers on top of his most recent pile.

Damn them. What was going on?

“On top of that, you’ll be interested to know there was a message carved in the man’s torso. Well-” She cuts herself off, yawning, then continues, “I don’t know if _interested_ ’s the right word, but. You catch my drift.”

His eyes widen. That was new. “A message?”

_How fascinating_ , Levant pipes in, curious.

“It just said ‘unworthy’. Nothing else.”

“ _‘Unworthy'_?”

“Yep. Sounds like we got a fanatic on our hands, I’d reckon, but that’s just my guess.” She stands up and dusts her hands off. “I’m gonna get back to making sure my men have finished up with the cleanup. Don’t stay up too late, now, alright?”

“A moment,” he says as she has her hand on the door.

“Yeah?” Hilda glances back at him.

“I...Count Baurendouin came by earlier today,” he begins, unsure how to start.

“Yeah?” she repeats, prodding.

“He spoke of you.”

“Well, we _did_ talk this morning. What of it?”

“He tells me you are having difficulties with the nobility again?”

She scowls, as he had known she would. “I had it handled.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I _handled_ it, alright?” Hilda leans back against the door, crossing her arms defensively. “I don’t need your help all the time, you know.”

Aymeric clenches his fist under the desk. “That is not the point I was trying to make.”

“Then what’re you tryin’ to say, _Lord_ Aymeric?” Her eyes narrow as she props a hand on her unoccupied hip. “That we should’ve come runnin’ to you like the dogs we’re named? That _you_ should’ve been the one getting their fancy arses to back down? Absolutely well _not_!”

“That I want to _help_ instead of seeing you ridiculed for something you could not control!” he defends. “That I do not want to see anything happen to you when I could have prevented it!”

Her hand cuts him off with a sharp wave. “And you _know_ that’d have the opposite bloody effect, damn it!” She runs her fingers through her hair and closes her eyes, trying to calm herself. 

“Explain it to me, then,” Aymeric demands, expression stony, “because I fail to understand why you would refuse gladly given assistance when it would make your task so much easier for you.”

She shakes her head at him.

“It wouldn’t, though, don’t you _see_?” she determinedly asks. “It was bad enough Count Haillenarte made ’em back off. The Hounds need to _earn_ the people’s trust, Aymeric. Not have it forced on ‘em. Otherwise it’s not _our_ authority they’re _really_ respectin’ - it’s yours. Or the High Houses'. Got it?”

He looks down, feeling foolish for having needed it spelled out to him thus. Of course he could not come to her aid, no matter what his instincts wanted him to do otherwise. To do so would upset the balance of powers they had both been working so hard towards (and still were). 

“You’ve gotta trust me,” Hilda implores, reassuring now. “We’re doin’ our best. We’ve handled it before. And we’re gonna get to the bottom of this.”

She was right, as usual. 

“I do,” he sighs.

“Good. That’s all I ask, then.”

Hilda spares him a final weary smile and departs.

**Author's Note:**

> More to come. 
> 
> As always, thanks to the lovely people at the [Bookclub](https://discord.gg/YgkDStS) \- This fic (among many others) wouldn't have happened without you.


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